


Accidentally Uncovered

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Baltimore Affair, Caught in the Act, F/M, Therapy Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Hannibal's receptionist sees something that she shouldn't.





	Accidentally Uncovered

**Author's Note:**

> The show briefly mentions that Hannibal's receptionist is on "vacation" (and we all know what that means), but we never found out why she disappeared. This is my headcanon on what happened. Thank you to all who requested this story!

There is something peculiar about Hannibal Lecter.

Laura cannot quite put her finger on it. Possibly the most mannered individual she has ever met, always eloquent, poised and charming, yet there is a spot on the pristine white of his presence she can’t seem to brush off. It is not any of the obvious things that makes him instantly noticeable like his unusual accent (it is very alluring, actually) or his love for over-patterned fabrics (where does one find these anyway?).

It is not even the atypical set up of his workspace. She has always thought a therapist’s office should be bright and inviting, but this space reminded her more of a museum with hidden secrets lurking behind every high shelf. Every time she entered it, she remembered an old black and white horror movie she saw as a child, something about a mummy coming back to life in London. The archaeologist’s library looked exactly like this room. Perhaps there were skeletons ready to emerge from his closets as well; she considered that joke in her mind but had never dared to utter it out loud. Somehow, she doubted he would find it amusing.

She has never heard him laugh, come to think of it, only few decorous smiles, most of them designed to put potential patients at ease. He seems to be very picky with those; some of the patients returned regularly, while others were swiftly referred. And some of them did not return at all after one session. These ones puzzled her most.

But she does not mind any of the quirks. It is an easy job and it pays well. As far as employers go, there can be worse to complain about than an overly organised stationery drawer.

She has never seen Doctor Lecter forgone his perfect composure; years of practising medicine must have left him accustomed to maintaining collectedness at all times. There has only been one occasion when his covered emotions have made a brief appearance.

“Can I help you?”

The visitor has taken her by surprise, today’s appointments were long over, the night lurking behind the fading light of the evening. Laura has not heard her come in; the woman materialised as if out of thin air. A beautiful blonde, petite but commanding in her presence, with a piercing stare currently assessing Laura and making her strangely uneasy.

“Is Doctor Lecter in?” the woman acknowledges her question at last, her voice unrushed, resembling a stream of water moving through pebbles.

“He is gone for the day,” she offers the usual response, yet the woman does not seem discouraged, standing in anticipation of having her demand met. Laura is certain she is accustomed to it.

As if by perfect timing, the door of the office opens and Doctor Lecter’s curious stare falls on the scene.

“Doctor Du Maurier, what a pleasant surprise,” he exclaims instantly upon seeing the woman.

There is a certain giddiness in his manner when he looks at his visitor, one Laura has never seen him display before. It would be typical for any other person to express glee, but not for Hannibal Lecter; it is barely noticeable, like a flicker of light behind a closed curtain, but it is there, nonetheless.

Laura looks at them both, taken aback by her employer’s unusually _normal_ manner, and notices something passing between their stares, as though a whole conversation has taken place without a single word being uttered.

“Please,” he steps aside at once, “Come in.”

The woman passes by him without another look at Laura and enters the office, a faint smile playing about her lips.

“That will be all for today, Laura. Thank you. I will see you tomorrow,” Doctor Lecter bids her goodbye and follows the woman in. The door closes with a decisive thud, leaving her alone with her unanswered questions.

Another doctor, a colleague for sure; although she has not seen any other visiting his office, she cannot image the woman being his patient.

Or perhaps she is something _more_. Laura’s natural curiosity raises her eager head, piqued by this unexpected occurrence in the otherwise set daily routine, but she stifles its growl.

Still, she wishes she had a reason to linger at her desk, but she can’t think of any without looking suspicious. She switches the light off, takes her bag and makes her way to the front door, all while wondering what is happening behind the closed door. She pushes the inquisitive thoughts away as she leaves the building. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.

“Doctor Du Maurier is an odd one, apparently a real ice queen.”

Almost despite herself she mentions the unusual guest to her friend, a nurse at John Hopkins Hospital who happens to possess an extensive knowledge of gossip pertaining to all past and present doctors who crossed the hospital’s paths.

“She has a private psychiatric practice and keeps to herself,” the woman sips her coffee, letting the information sink in, “At least that is what I heard,” she sets the cup down, marking the limit of her knowledge.

A lone psychiatrist. It sounds all too familiar, not that it was her business to pry into her employer’s private life. And she thought Baltimore wasn’t big enough to have a pair of them.

Doctor Du Maurier appears on two more occasions, each time unannounced and outside appointment hours. Her every appearance is met with an animated welcome from Doctor Lecter; his sharp features turning soft like sun ripened fruit when he sees her. She never offers Laura anything but a brief word of acknowledgement before disappearing inside the office, casting additional shadows on the already baffling visits.

Perhaps Doctor Lecter is simply seeking advice in relation to a difficult case. If they were indeed somehow involved, she would be visiting his home, not his office. The reserved character of both parties keeps the inquiry thriving in her mind. But it is for nought.

The true nature of their relationship will remain a mystery, she recons.

It was Friday evening and Laura was already on the road home when her eyes fell on the envelope lying on the passenger’s seat of her car. Her foot almost forces the breaks down, but she manages to avoid a possible accident.

How could she have forgotten it?

An urgent referral of a patient who was seeking an appointment first thing next week. The courier appeared at the door just as she was leaving for lunch; she took the envelope with her and she was meant to give it to Doctor Lecter right after her return. But apparently, she got distracted by the larger than usual slice of brownie that came with her coffee. Cursing her own negligence, she turns her car around; somehow, she senses it would not be a good thing to see Doctor Lecter displeased.

The bruise of the sky is already turning black, when she pulls up at the building she left not so long ago. Her eyes scan the front in search of light, but all windows stare back at her with unresponsive darkness; it appears Doctor Lecter had left as well, no doubt having plans for the evening. She relaxes slightly and exits the car. It will only take her a few seconds to rectify her mistake and she can start her weekend anew.

As she enters the familiar hallway, something makes her stop. A gleam of light seeping from under the office door. She has not seen it from the outside. Perhaps he had no plans after all; the vision of Hannibal Lecter working late on a Friday evening only reinforces her idea of his strictness but at least now she can give him the letter and hopefully put this brief lapse of competence swiftly behind her.

She steps closer to the door, hand already lifting to announce her presence with the habitual double knock, when she noticed it is slightly ajar. The hand pauses mid-air. It is not like him to leave it open; the privacy of his office being valued above all. Confusion swirls in her mind and she suddenly remembers the old movie and ancient forces coming out from the shadows. It is _ridiculous_, there are no such things as monsters, but they are many real dangers. Visions of unwanted intruders creep into her thoughts despite the improbability of the notion.

Her previous intention of knocking forgotten, courtesy be damned, the hand now reaches for the knob and pushes it slowly, the well-kept door opening without a sound. She glances through the parting but sees no immediate sign of any trespass. The limited light makes it hard to see the whole room, perhaps it is nothing more than a lonely lamp forgotten to be switched off. Relaxing anew, she steps in and immediately notices a bottle and two empty wine glasses on the side table. That is definitely _not_ the usual office décor.

She opens her mouth to call out and takes another step further, her gaze turning towards the desk. The unvoiced words become lodged in her throat; legs instantly powerless on the spot while her eyes grow wide at the revelation of the scene.

Doctor Du Maurier sits atop of the desk, half naked, her head thrown back as she rests her weight on her hands reaching behind her. With a skirt pulled up, her legs are wide open, and a man is kneeling between them. Hannibal Lecter’s unbuttoned shirt is hanging loose on his back, the muscles of his shoulders moving slowly like an advancing reptile as he adjusts the grip on the woman’s thighs, his head buried in between them.

Deep lapping sounds reverberate in the vast space of the darkened room, turning into a strange melody; she is surprised she has not heard them right away. Then another tone joins in with the rhythm, the woman’s soft sighs. They are not loud, but her flushed skin turning a constant deeper shade and hastened breathing, making her exposed breasts move prominently, betray intense pleasure.

One of her hands shifts to pull at the man’s hair as she parts her legs further, her head now falling back in complete abandon. He obeys at once, the low growl joining the symphony of sounds as he accelerates the caresses.

Their usual marble-like self-possession is nowhere to be found, making the sighting even more startling. The nature of the mysterious relationship have become overtly uncovered but at what cost. Laura chastises herself for all the presumptions and inquiries.

_Careful what you wish for._

Lost in their passion, they have not noticed her intrusion yet. It is not too late to avoid disaster; she could step back slowly and exit the room just as she entered it, but her feet refuse to cooperate, firmly rooted to the floor. And she is unable to look away. Her cheeks blush profoundly as her mind attempts to reason with her shameless gaze and unresponsive limbs.

Suddenly, the woman’s head turns to the side and her eyes spring open as sees the unwelcomed viewer of their intimate moment. Her gaze ignites instantly, the blue flames leaping at Laura in shock or anger, she cannot tell.

The unexpected change of tension in the woman’s body immediately alerts the man between her legs and Hannibal Lecter’s head lifts slowly then follows her stare. Laura catches a glimpse of the untamed lust that was driving his ministrations before his gaze flinches and centres, once again reminding her of a reptile, but one that has now locked the eyes on his prey and an immediate strike will follow. They both stare at her with their own specific brand of intensity and it makes Laura terrified. Although they are the ones exposed, she feels as though she were lying naked on the desk instead.

“I’m… sorry,” she managed to get the words out at last, still they are inadequate to the gravity of the situation, her voice trembling with mortification.

Her feet take a shaky step backwards and it breaks her mental paralysis; she turns abruptly on her heel and rushes out of the office. She hears the door shutting behind her as she continues to walk briskly down the corridor, yet she does not remember closing them. She still holds the letter, crumpled in her tightly squeezed hand. The man’s referral will be delayed, but she thinks that is the last thing Hannibal Lecter will be upset about.

_He knew he should not have employed a receptionist._

Eyes narrowing in anger, Hannibal watches the door closing firmly behind the hapless girl. His gaze instantly moves up to Bedelia, already turning on the spot in search of her abandoned blouse.

Their moment is over.

Hannibal’s jaw tenses with barely contained wrath. He has hardly tasted her; his lips press together as if wanting to preserve her flavour on his skin. It is a rarity he does not get to taste often, and he was planning to take his time; she always tastes even more divine the second time around.

“I believe that settles the need for a change of location for our _sessions_,” Bedelia says simply, not letting her embarrassment show.

The usual mask of self-command covers her face, but he knows the revelation has upset her, the tension still visible in the tiniest pull in the corner of her mouth. She moves down from the desk, adjusting her skirt and putting the recovered shirt back on. Hannibal remains kneeling, waiting for the crimson haze to disperse from his line of vision.

“Your secretary seems to be overworking herself,” adjusting her hair, Bedelia adds, not without an acutely pointed asperity in her voice. She reaches for her underwear discarded on the floor and places it in her handbag without preamble.

“Yes,” Hannibal stands up at last despite his heart weighting him down, crestfallen at the sight of her slipping her shoes on, an obvious indication she is reading to leave, the final nail to the coffin of their interrupted evening.

He does not want to see her go but knows he cannot stop her. The red returns to his eyes, but the hue is sharp and crystal clear this time, a hunter’s focus. He begins to button his own shirt, gaze moving to the recently closed door, an intention forming in his mind.

“Perhaps she needs a vacation.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal's office design was brilliantly based on John Sloane's library (a fact that I have only discovered this year, shame on me); he was an architect, not an archaeologist of course, but had an extensive collection of antiquities, even a sarcophagus (which was deemed too expensive for the British Museum so he bought it for himself). I think Hannibal would appreciate that level of extra and wouldn't mind having one as well (he is so subtle after all). 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are love.


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